


The Place Between the Pines

by zanni_scaramouche



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bromance, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied John/Melissa, Implied Peter/Chris, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, No Smut, Not Beta Read, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Burn, Werefox Stiles Stilinski, sciles friendship, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 17:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17370512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanni_scaramouche/pseuds/zanni_scaramouche
Summary: The last of the Hale line has secluded himself in the woods, away from society and reminders of a family he longs for. A young shifter appears in his territory on the brink of death, awakening a long forgotten bond between the two families. Together they learn how to trust, a task not made easy as old lies start to unravel.(Does this sound familiar? Because believe it or not I wrote it before I wrote 3ft. Crazy.)





	1. Family Bonds

**Author's Note:**

> Good luck out there! I'm not sure how this reads. 
> 
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS! 
> 
> PRE-SLASH

The pines of Oregon reached to the sky thanks to an abundance of time and firm roots. Wild creatures scampered beneath them, the distant thrum of their hearts a soothing beat to count time as seasons rhythmically turned over. Years passed uncounted, recognized only in small moments. Mornings he sat alone in the kitchen and realized he couldn’t remember the songs his aunt hummed when baking. A blanket that no longer held the smell of Laura and burnt popcorn. The roughness of his voice when he had to find it on the rare trip to the gas station. There wasn’t much left to say. 

Glass and cement walls were not meant for family. A stranger's design was no place for pack, the one he lost nor the one his instincts were desperate to build. The walls of his family house had been warm earth tones his father favoured, the whole place lit in soft amber. From the second he woke there was no mistaking this place, with it’s harsh white light and industrial edges, for the home he’d been raised in. It was a good thing, he told himself. Another reason he had no place starting a pack.

Some days he’d clench his fist and pierce his palms, just the tip of pain to make the pressure in his jaw and pain between his temples ease off. Those were good days, when it faded into the background as a mild annoyance. On the bad days he ran. For hours at a time he ran through the trees, venturing deep into mountains where he tracked miles of wilderness, allowing his wolf to focus on nothing more than the grit of the damp earth dirt beneath him and the chase of small prey.

Prey.

His ears flicked at the sound. Small paws clumsily pushing through underbrush. A whining pant and a rapid heart beat. An urge to hunt pressed at his jaws and drove him forward. The creature took no notice of the wolf deftly stalking from behind. The blood on it's coat reeked of days spent drying in evenings heat and collecting muck in morning dew. There was no attempt to be quiet, it's steps so wayward a trip was inevitable. Derek felt it would be a mercy to shorten it’s suffering.

Derek advanced on the flank and stopped short at the full scent of the creature under the muck. This was not an animal. It was not made of the forest, born in a hole and meant to die just the same. It was a thing of magic and myth, a distant cousin to the power in Derek’s veins. He hesitated in his tracking, calculating the best course of action when confronted with unknown magic. It would not be wise, he thought, to let it out of his sight while still in his territory. 

The fox was more limping than trotting, but there was little denying it’s trajectory after a full morning of cutting and weaving a straggly line. By the time it fell against a tree they’d made it scarcely three miles, enough to leave little doubt. If it kept forward they would pass the house within the hour. The only thing beyond was Mt. Hood, some forty miles to the north. It made Derek tense. With no destination to run to it was more likely running from something. Something that might follow. He approached apprehensively. The fox would be physically no match for Derek even at full strength, but it smelled of magic and kin that left the human and wolf in Derek worryingly conflicted.

Walking on two legs felt foreign. Pale skin was tight after days spent in fur. Without resistance Derek picked up the limp fox like a child, the pelt of it's back thin around it’s ribcage and it’s feet soaked in a crust of stale blood and filth. To Derek it felt more like holding a crippled sparrow than a kit. The limp weight in his arms reminded him of the first time he found something injured in the forest, he had a knack for wanting to fix broken things. A character flaw he thought he’d outgrown after Paige. With a jarring shake of his head he shook the feeling off before it lingered too long.

He’d never resented building this particular house until he sat waiting for the needlessly large bathtub to fill with two inches of water. Bleary eyes peered at him from under the warm water. Derek earned a few weak yips when he ran his hands through its pelt full of twigs and gnarled grime. He worked methodically and kept his mind focussed on the task, deliberately not questioning the consequences the future would bring. To his odd relief there were no open wounds. A nasty patch of scar tissue on its stomach spoke for the source of the blood he’d washed away. He left to pile towels and blankets on the bed and when he returned the kit had dozed off in a tight circle in the tub. Gently he carried it through the halls, conscious of every sound his feet made against the sleek floor and the small huffs of breath from the snout at his neck. On the bed its tiny ball of a body seemed swallowed by the bulk of the sheets. 

He worried. About the signs of starvation, the amount of blood that had run off in the water, how docile it had been under his hands. 

He was worried about what his instincts were telling him. His palms were shredded by his own claws and he hadn’t felt a thing. 

 

-

 

Stiles woke in a tangle of someone else's scent. It was overpowering. It was the first thing he noticed, before the swaddled fabric he lay in, before the softness of his clean coat, before the man who sat at the head of the bed. A few lazy blinks and he put together that the scent belonged to the man. A yawn tore through him before he could think much more. His bones felt heavy, his muscles weak, his eyelids drooping. There was a man with dark hair and bright eyes and the softest bed Stiles had ever been in. He fell back asleep.

 

A jolt pushed him awake. He sat, naked and pink skinned under a mountain of blankets, twisted sheets clinging to his sweaty skin. His senses reached out. A man's scent soaked in his nostrils, familiar, but impossible to place the face it belonged to. A gust of wind brought a wave of rain beating against the window, most likely the sound to wake him. The adrenaline in his veins faded quickly, with little more than a shiver his muscles gave in to the overwhelming fatigue and relaxed, despite the tension lingering in the air.

Underneath the rain and wind he heard a heartbeat, paired with the soft rush of air in lungs and little flicks of thumbs turning pages. Hello, mystery man. What the hell this man was thinking when he brought in a mangy fox is a mystery, but the underlying scent he recognized as ‘wolf gave him the impression there wouldn't be surprise when a human appeared in its place. A wolf does not play with its food, it hunts and kills in one fell swoop and moves on. He wasn’t here to be murdered. 

He was eighty seven percent sure.

It took more effort than he’d ever like to admit to untangle his limbs and get standing. By the end of it he was shaky and sweaty and naked. The pile of oversized clothing on the bedside table was both a godsend and a curse. Meeting a stranger in the nude was not something he’d openly choose, but clothes meant energy he wasn’t sure he had. One shaking limb at a time he pulled them on. They were loose and warm. A part of him enjoyed the scent they brought close to his skin. Like a hug. The thought brought forward the memory of hands on him, steady and firm and gentle under a stream of warm water. He may have lingered with the sweater half way over his face for longer than necessary as the disjointed memories came back to him, but he’d deny it.

The cool floor of the hall kept him on his toes. Goosebumps rolled across his skin and his sore muscles involuntarily tried to clench again. His breath was cut short when he turned into the open living space.

A man sat on a worn leather couch with a book in hand. For a moment Stiles stood and squinted to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, the scene looked straight out a high-end home décor magazine, cable knit sweater and all. There was a gravity to the man, a grounding Stiles’ instincts recognized but his brain could only explain as ‘Alpha’. It kept him hesitating at the edge of the room. The man glanced up and let his eyes linger briefly before he cast them back down to the book. It was quick, but it felt like approval. 

The softness of him drew Stiles in. Instinct had him sit on the high pile rug at the foot of the couch. If he had reached his arm out he could have touched the man, but he stayed huddled with the butter-smooth leather at his back. Money, his mind supplied him with as he pet the carpet. This is a man with a shit ton of money. The motion of his fingers felt stupid, but the repetitive nature of it soothed his high-wired nerves. He pressed into the cool pressure of the solid couch at his back and dug his toes into the soft rug at his feet to test their sturdiness. 

Slowly in the silence his shoulders started dropping. Stiles begrudgingly noted that his docile state of mind also had to do with the man sitting above him. The effect of his presence felt familiar, something he usually felt when seeing his dad after long work shifts or reuniting with Scott after he came back from vacation. Instinct told him: relax, safe, family. It was too familiar for a stranger. His hand paused while twisted in the carpet. 

Every muscle stiffened and his heart beat like the charging roar of a train with the realisation, he’d been here before. The last time misguided instincts compelled him to obey a man he’d never met with the flash of red eyes he’d been sixteen and naive and covered in blood by the end of it. 

He shut his eyes and dug his blunt fingers into the carpet. Be nice, he chanted in his mind, be nice and gracious and get the hell out of here as soon as you can. His bones were weights keeping him in place. Get out. Every muscle relaxed until they barely felt a part of his body. The grogginess from extended sleep puts him underwater, currents pulling breath in and out of him. What was he supposed to remember?

"Thank you," he managed to murmur when he surfaced back to reality. His fingers absently twined in the threads of the carpet.

"Derek."

He looked up to put the name with the face. Derek. The line of his jaw was sharp, the curve of his cheeks shallow, the width of his shoulders broad. One by one he took in each feature, a trimmed beard and hair only just curled around the ears and green eyes that caught his and didn’t let go. 

"Thank you, Derek." He wet his lips quickly in response to the anxiety-and-attraction clenching his stomach. Something about the Alpha mo-jo must really help in the aesthetic department. A flash of red confirmed the man's rank. Stiles’ eyes pulsed in what he knew was a flash of orange in response.

"And yours?" Derek said, an order with the slightest of command behind it.

"Stiles. Call me Stiles." He blurted. Awkwardly he shifted under the assessing eyes, the absurd feeling of not knowing what to do with his hands growing until he felt unsure of what to do with his whole body as he waited for- something.

Finally the man gave a short nod and looked back to his book, releasing Stiles from his focus. Like he’d been cut from a rope Stiles reeled. He pressed his toes into the ground and his back into the couch and waited for the black spots in his vision to subside. Slowly the world stilled and with it came some clarity. Plan ‘get out of dodge’ would have to wait. No use running into the woods if he fell down five feet away. Almost passing out while sitting on the floor would definitely be a new low for him. 

"There is broth staying warm in the oven. Drink some." Derek said in a flat tone. It left no room for discussion or misunderstanding. Stiles was on his feet in an instant at the order, his back turned carelessly.

"Stiles." A chill shot through him. He looked over his shoulder, feeling guilty for trusting so easy. Guilty for taking so quickly. "Slowly." He could tell Derek meant business because of the way he used his eyebrows.

Stiles didn’t let the broth cool, but he did use a spoon instead of chugging it down from the bowl. It was slow enough.

 

Derek didn’t know what to think of the odd creature sitting in his kitchen. Stiles was cautious, but not terrified. Not of Derek. Something had made him tense, he’d noticed, but it passed without mention. The sight of him sitting at his feet with wide eyes comforted a part of Derek. He felt an ache radiate through him, an old hollowness he’d tried to ignore since Laura. The want of a pack. Wolf or not this kit had proven quickly he would obey, he would sit at his feet and lay in his bed. It'd been so long since Derek had had someone. 

Anyone.

The boy, Stiles, swallowed down his broth in large spoonfuls. Derek observed him from the side of the couch. He had pale skin bruised under the eyes in a way only sleep could fix, healing factor be damned. Derek’s words of caution were rightly placed. The boy was skin and bones, and like his fur Derek's clothing did nothing to hide it. Wherever he’d come from this boy had been running for a long time. Derek had guessed in the forest, but up close he could see exactly how much it'd taken from Stiles. Seeing him sleep, clean, eat. It made something swell in Derek’s chest, like a damn preening cat bringing home a dead bird, Derek had brought his wolf the temptation of the one thing it had always wanted. Despite his human weariness, his wolf was already taking this kit as it’s own. It concerned him, considering all he knew was a name.

He approached the island counter, sure to make noise on the way. The boy didn’t startle, merely tilting his head in recognition of the sound.

Derek settled against the cool surface and waited until the bowl was empty to ask, "Why were you running?"

Stiles kept his eyes averted to the bowl in his hands and scraped his spoon loudly against its empty sides with a wobbly hand.

"Why’d you save me?" Stiles mumbled back. 

Derek had to double check, but he was pretty certain the boy was close to pouting. It was the first bit of personality he’d seen, and it brought a hint of a smile to Derek’s lips.

It was petulant and he knew it but Derek still said, "You first, kit."

He got a frown for it. Stiles looked uncomfortable with his shoulders hunched, but Derek needed to know what danger had driven him on foot for so long. It was much harder to defend his territory against an unknown danger than a known one. 

"I ran from hunters. Let them chase me so they wouldn’t- so they would follow me out of town." Instead of stay. Instead of track him back to his family. Derek had made that mistake. He'd never regretted anything more. 

Hunters, then. Nothing new. 

 

-

 

There was no point in lying to a man who could force the truth out. The issue was finding the words. Images ran behind his eyelids.

Scott’s beta gold eyes the first time he saw Stiles the morning after the last innocent night in the forest. His new and improved senses had flared at the scent of fox. Scott hadn’t known before he’d been bitten. It hadn’t been easy telling him: ‘Surprise! I’ve been turning into a fox since I was twelve and I never told you, but now you’re a werewolf so welcome to the club, buddy!’ 

Gerard’s fists when he caught them both. The sound of a generators power running through Scott’s veins. Stiles got them out of the basement by the skin of his teeth, lucky the hunters hadn’t thought him to be anything but human. They’d been after wolves, and after the two teens escaped hunting season truly began. Given the double to nothing hunter-to-were’ ratio on a slow day, it was surprising they lasted as long as they did. It couldn’t last forever. 

A lucky knife got Stiles in the stomach. Stiles was stupid and sentimental and like an idiot he’d returned to the last place he’d seen his best friend, his brother, alive on the anniversary of his death. It was a rookie mistake. His father would be furious to find out, if he ever did. After the hunters ambushed him, like he should have known they would, Stiles started running. The knife hadn’t been laced. Lucky.

He’d had no direction but instinct. It lead his feet through the mud and over fallen trees. Retreat, hide, heal. But it never felt like he’d escaped the sight of an arrow. Even when he no longer heard the hunters on his tail he’d felt there was no hiding place good enough to stop. An incessant urge kept him going longer than he physically should have, a feeling that didn’t let him stop until his body gave out.

He scraped his spoon obnoxiously against the empty bowl once more. There were no words for these feelings. No summary for the events that had happened.

“Not a happy place, where I’m from.” He quipped. He dropped his spoon loudly into the bowl.

He didn’t have any plans now that he was out of town. The only goal had been to survive, and to his distressed and probably concussed mind in the moment of battle, it meant get as far away from Argents as possible. He didn’t know what it said about him to have run from one hunter into the den of another.

“You will stay.”

They both froze when the words came out, given the look on his face Derek must’ve shared the surprise Stiles felt. He recovered quickly and gave Stiles a small nod to confirm the words. Stiles’ bones unlocked and he slid out of

“Shit sorry, I-“  
his chair onto unsteady feet. They’d healed, no doubt thanks to the time passed, but phantom pain from memory still had him wincing on his toes.

“You should stay until you’re better. Then you can choose.” To stay, Stiles assumed was left unsaid. Stiles’ shoulders sagged at the word ‘choose’. Not every Alpha was an ass, he knew vaguely, but experience had told him otherwise. It was a good option. For all he knew there was nothing but forest outside the house. Civilization couldn’t be too far given the man still had to get his food and toilet paper from somewhere, but that could mean days of travel without a car. The chance to recuperate under a roof was too tempting to pass up. Even if there was a hidden fee, Stiles pushed it out of his mind at the same time he pushed his stool away from the island. He’d be out of there long before something like that happened, he hoped. 

“Thank you, Alpha.”

Stiles wasn’t sure that was something you did, if the title could be referred to like you would use Doctor or Captain. He had to clear his throat at the thought of Derek in a captain’s uniform. He’d bet that ass would look superb in white. A flush of embarrassment came over him when he remembered Derek had the ability to practically smell his thoughts. 

He stostumbled quickly to the sink in an awkward haste to get away from the images flooding his mind. The bowl shattered at his feet, having been hit by one of his errant elbows. Stiles jumped back at the sound and cursed himself when he realized what had happened. Way to fucking go. The man brought him to his house and back from the brink of death and he repays him by breaking his possessions.

He knelt down and started to pick up the pieces. He could feel the weight of Derek’s eyes force his head lower and he turned to expose his neck. If he thought he’d been embarrassed a second ago, it had nothing on the heat that swallowed his face now. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts and his tongue seemed to swell with no way to articulate them. A few of the smaller pieces dug into his fingertips as they shook and clenched. He was pretty sure a medical miracle had just occurred because he’d swear his heart had found a way to lodge itself firmly in his throat, simultaneously cutting off his air supply and filling his head with its rapid skip. 

A warm hand covered his without warning. Derek’s fingers easily pried the bloody pieces of porcelain from his and Stiles’ mind went blank as he stared unseeingly at the cupboard inches from his face. Once his hand was empty Derek gently took it in his own and used it to guide him back to standing.

“You’re recovering still. Go back to bed.”

A compulsion to obey thrummed in his veins. He felt heat radiate off of the man inches from him and he swayed forward before he caught himself. Back on his heels he focused on the steady rhythm of Derek’s breathing and saw the gentle request in his face. Stiles heart continued to race. It wasn’t in fear. He didn’t quite know what it was. Derek stepped to the side and Stiles headed back down the hall in wavering steps. Walking didn’t used to be this hard. 

Sleep. Sleep would help. If he was lucky he wouldn’t remember this. 

 

-

 

The following weeks were an adjustment for both of them. Stiles slowly gained his strength back and he was able to stay awake longer. In the hours awake he roamed around the place with its large windows and minimal decor, every footstep echoing in the empty house. Derek spent his time doing busy work, keeping to himself. On a memorable experience Stiles explored around the yard in several oversized layers to find the man cutting firewood. He may have sat and watched under the pretence of wanting company, but he was sure the lie fell flat with how his gaze lingered on the man's flexing muscles. To pay the cosmos back for the ogling not resulting in a mauling he helped stack the end product in the woodshed.

For his part Derek stayed stoic, direct, and out of the way. He let Stiles do as he pleased when he roamed through the property. Most days ended with them bundled up reading or watching a DVD on the dusty flat screen. The conversation minimal on Derek’s part, in fact Stiles could scarcely recall a conversation he hadn’t had to start himself. It didn’t stop him from over compensating for the silence, because the silence meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering, and he didn’t want to remember. With enough needling and whining he could get Derek to speak, if only to get Stiles to shut his mouth, and that was enough success to keep him afloat. 

It was in the open plan living room that they spent most of their time in. Rugs and blankets insulated the space and easily made it the homiest room, which really meant ‘least like a contemporary jail cell’. Along the walls stood bookshelves so weighed down they started to bend in the middle, and the sofa was a twelve seater so soft you forgot it was leather. 

In contrast to his usual passiveness, Derek was vigilant about how much Stiles was eating and sleeping. It came at first in the way of one word orders.

“Finish.” Said to a half filled plate.

“Bed.” Growled after pulling the power on the TV. It was a tad dramatic given the remote had been sitting unsupervised on the coffee table, but the message was made. 

A few days in and Derek grew softer about it, an effort made to make them seem more like suggestions than the orders Stiles knew them to be.

“You should head to bed soon.” He’d mumble around his own toothbrush, or “There might be desert if you’re still hungry.” Said like Stiles was six. It worked, but still. 

The man was an enigma. For all that Stiles was living in his house and eating his food, he hadn’t learned much past the ‘my name is Derek and I’m a werewolf’ he’d learned on the first day. It was obvious that Derek genuinely wanted him to get better, and Stiles appreciated it when his strength noticeably came back, but the stronger he got the more on edge he became about what Derek would expect in return. He wasn’t sixteen anymore, he could defend himself much better than he could back when his limbs were newly extended and his centre of gravity had shifted almost weekly. He also knew his limits, and a full grown Alpha werewolf made a grizzly bear look cuddly. Regardless, it was hard to keep his suspicions up when the man was grumpily coddling him. By the end of the first week he was ashamed to realise he’d become comfortable in Derek's space. 

While adventuring around the house he marvelled at its size. Along the halls were several miscellaneous rooms, some so scarcely filled and airless that Stiles wondered why one man would find himself in such a large house if he didn’t plan to fill it. There were two other bedrooms that held furniture, and they were somehow more utilitarian than the one Stiles was currently sprawled in. Their stuffy air tipped Stiles off. He’d had his suspicions, but they weren’t confirmed until he woke in the middle of the night to get water and saw Derek curled on the couch. Guilt for stealing Derek’s bed curled in his belly.

“Dude, you have several other beds. Why don’t you sleep there? Why don’t I sleep there? I should totally be-“

“No,” Derek had all but barked. “It’s fine how it is.”

Stiles hadn’t understood, but the tone Derek used didn’t need explaining for him to know when to back off. There were few things that made Derek shut his doors so quickly, categories like family and his past and cutting his hair. Stiles added ‘unused bedrooms’ to the list.

In return for Stiles keeping away from touchy topics, Derek gained a good sense of knowing when Stiles thoughts were dragging him into anxiety. A well-timed order, no matter how simple, would shake him out of his head. He complained about being unpaid labour, but he obeyed regardless. He’d help Derek solve a puzzle, or get a start on making lunch, or read whatever book was tossed at his head. Doing something, no matter the task, gave him a well-needed break from his own mind. It happened often enough for Stiles to notice what Derek was doing, and it almost made tears spring to his eyes like the baby he was because god damn, it was the kindest thing anyone had done for him in a long time. 

Time started passing quickly in their glass and cement bubble hidden in the woods. Any plan to leave crossed his mind so rarely it couldn’t be considered an actual plan but a mere suggestion. Days went uncounted. Stiles shoulders went hours without tensing up. He settled in like there was no other world he belonged to because this one was so much easier than the one he’d left behind. It was a mistake. 

 

-

 

Months. It had been months and Derek tried. Derek tried really fucking hard to respect the boys space. It was a lot of effort when, without thought, he found himself migrating closer. He’d find himself pressed against the boys back when looking over his shoulder at a funny passage in a novel, or using an arm over his shoulder to drag him back indoors when he’d fallen asleep in the sun for too long, or leaning into his space when they stood making dinner together. Stiles would lean back only to start and jump out of reach. Derek tried to stop and keep his distance every time. He couldn’t read the look in Stiles' eyes, he didn’t know if there was a reason beyond embarrassment and unfamiliarity that kept the boy stepping out of reach.

It came to a head because of empty cupboards.

Normally the place was stocke heavily to keep trips few and far between. Normally there was one mouth to feed. Fridges and shelves did not fill themselves. Stiles was sullen the instant Derek had told him he had to go into town. Derek offered to take him along, but Stiles had only become more agitated. A messily scrawled address was shoved into Derek’s hand as he walked out the door.

“Send a postcard,” Stiles shrugged without meeting his eyes. Not that he ever made a habit of doing so.

The trip took him the better part of a day. He supposed it was to be expected he’d miss the new rhythms of Stiles, considering he- well, considering. For the first time since he’d started making the several hour drive to town it felt overly long and torturously silent. Necessity was the only thing to keep him from turning around. During the early sunset he sped home. 

He was on edge as soon as he hit the driveway. Immediately his eyes stung in reaction to salty tears and the sweat of fear in the air when he stepped in. A heartbeat stuttered. With slow steps Derek made his way to the living room, taking care to be quiet but not silent, slow but not lingering, so the boy could gather himself. 

Derek sat on the couch and turned something on low, his senses focused completely on Stiles shuffling down the hall. He waited stiffly for Stiles to meekly join him at the other end, the boy sat with tense muscles and fidgeting fingers. The movie played on, but Derek listened only to the sound of Stiles short breathing, his heart skipping, his fingers tap-tap-tapping the armrest. Long minutes later Derek watched from the corner of his eye as the boy pushed himself down into a tentative sprawl on the cushions, the exhaustion being on edge catching up with Stiles. He landed in a position carefully leaving a cubic foot of empty space between them on the couch. There was no way in hell it was comfortable. Derek couldn’t go two breaths before he had to act. With gentle nudges he shuffled behind Stiles until his chest pressed against Stiles’ back and their legs had room to spread out. He left space for Stiles to step out if he wanted, made sure not to be too forceful. Stiles made a sleepy questioning sound but let his limbs be moved, his eyes already half shut. Once in place Derek could feel the tension build in Stiles shoulders until he wrapped an arm around the boy and pressed his palm against Stiles’ chest.

“Rest.”

Like a dropped marionette Stiles dropped into his hold, the rise and fall of his ribs smoothed out to an even beat.

The line needed to be crossed. Following Derek’s deliberate show of physical touch Stiles slowly became comfortable leaning into him. He pressed back into Derek’s side and adjusted to hold his hand when these moments happened. Derek never mentioned when the clothes he bought for Stiles stayed nearly untouched and for weeks he continued to find his own shirts and socks scattered amongst the furniture throughout the house. Slowly Stiles stopped looking like a gaunt recovery patient drowning in the layers. With help from the proper food he was eating and the circuits Derek made him run around the property to expel his ever-growing energy, his muscles started to exist again. No longer did he seem like a child, but more a man coming into himself. Not for the first time Derek wondered Stiles’ true age. Derek had a feeling he would never stop thinking of him as a kit regardless.

-

Contentment was a warm feeling resting in his chest when he fell into bed for the night. 

The phantom feeling of a knife slashing through his belly shook him into a pitch black bedroom no longer smelling like comfort, it’s barren walls cold and empty around him. In the dark of the night he slunk out of bed on all fours with his tail and ears tucked low. He managed to wiggle himself between Derek and the couch back, the perfect pocket of space for his slight body. He tucked his nose under Derek’s jaw and relaxed into the comforting heat of the man who’d saved him. In the morning he held no recollection of the journey from bed to couch, but neither of them said a word. A few nights later Stiles woke from another nightmare to the shift of Derek settling behind him in the bed. They never spoke about it, and Stiles wasn’t sure what he’d even say if it came up. There was something about Derek that made him react without thought. His limbs loosened when the man was near, even the mere sight of him would bring waves of reassurance crashing over him. Like he’d been holding his breath for four years since Scott had- since Scott was gone, and now he could breathe.

He’d lost most of his caution around Derek. Constant vigilance to too much energy and focus, and being otherwise isolated left him easily impressionable and longing for company, but mostly the familiarity grew between them because he forgot. He forgot to be scared and weary and on edge because Derek made it unbelievably easy to just be. Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome, maybe it was just laziness. 

It wasn’t all sunshine and daisies, but the more time he spent around the man the more he felt assured he was safe. Derek was quick to reprimand him when he crossed a line, like when he grew bored enough to snoop without thought and found a box under the bed. He hadn’t even gotten it all the way out before he was yanked by the ankles and got a fierce growl and red eyes that did the job without any physical reprimand. The same went for certain books on the high shelves, the ones that reeked of smoke and ash. If he were being particularly annoying Derek would flick him in the ear or growl low in his chest. It was enough to keep Stiles in line, if only until his attention span ran out. Never did it go further than that. When he ate all of his dinner without issue or did the dishes without being asked he felt himself looking for the small smile that graced Derek’s lips. It made him want to roll onto his back and preen. He resisted. Barely.

One day they lay in the overgrown grass of the yard. Derek had a lawnmower somewhere. Stiles had seen it, but he was pretty sure it was for decoration. Earlier they’d played an invigorating game of tag on four paws and had worn themselves out, now they remained sprawled in their boxers. Derek had seemed content to go without, but he’d shrugged them on just the same when Stiles had thrown them over his indecency. Stiles wouldn’t have minded if he’d thought he could lay next to the guy naked without it becoming visibly obvious how much he liked the thought of it. So, boxers.

They’d sat long enough to see the clear sky cloud over. Stiles’ mind drifted to the last time he felt the rush of a game. Lacrosse had never been his strong suit, but he’d enjoyed playing with the other boys nonetheless. Then Jackson had died on the field from a bad hit to the head with a crosse. He couldn’t play night games in the dark after without seeing Jackson’s vacant eyes looking at him every time he looked down to the field, so he’d quit the team. He’d never been anything near friendly with Jackson, but he couldn’t shake the bad taste that came up when he thought about it. One hit to the head shouldn't have brought a kid like Jackson down so easy. It would have been enough to keep him off of a field for the rest of his life, but then he’d found Lyd-

“Hey,” Derek’s voice brought him back to the present.

He turned his head to the side and squinted to see the Alpha beside him.

“Get us some water?” It came out more like a question, but Stiles took it like the lifeline it was. Saving grace or not, it didn’t keep him from rolling over and huffing about it as he got up. When he came back out with two tall glasses he drained one quickly and threw the contents of the other on Derek’s face. He’d never seen a faster full shift and he followed suit, yipping with laughter as he darted through the territory. The game ended when Derek pinned him and nipped at his ear. He’d call it a tie.

 

“You need to work on your senses when you shift.” Derek said as way of good morning. He took Stiles confused grunt when he shuffled into the kitchen and sat down on the stool as ‘yes Derek, please go on.”

“You get distracted easily when you’re in a shift, like you’re focussing on one sense at a time. I can teach you how to keep them from being overwhelming all at once.”

Stiles perked up a bit at that. He hadn’t wanted to ask about much, but the fact that he’d never met a friendly experienced shifter left him at a serious disadvantage. His father hadn’t been the most useful when it came to the finer things. To be fair, it was his mother who’d played her cards close to her chest. Both Stilinski men had been caught unawares when Stiles’ eyes had burned orange at the side of his mother’s deathbed. Twelve years a human, eight more fumbling his way as a fox. They were lucky to pass the first growing pains off as ‘he’s going through puberty, you know how it is.’ There were things he didn’t have answers for and things he expected to never know about what exactly happened to him. Now there was Derek, a born shifter, who was offering to help. He’d be an absolute idiot to deny that he needed it. Badly.

They started later that day. Their friendly games of tag and chase now taken over as times of focus and concentration. Stiles wouldn’t say he enjoyed it, especially when he sniffed an overly pollinated flower and ended up sneezing for the rest of the day, but there were perks. Like touch. Touching Derek. Derek touching him. He could be down with that. So very down. As he was particularly aware of after a day of hard-core I-Spy, Stiles was not blind. Derek was attractive. He was muscled and bearded and a whole lot of ‘yes please’ as far as Stiles was concerned. 

And sure, they touched day to day. But they didn’t talk about it. Like they didn’t talk about the empty rooms, or the slow to fade scar on Stiles’ stomach, or the way Derek couldn’t handle the smell of burnt toast, or the fact that they shared a bed most nights. There were a lot of things they didn’t talk about, really.

 

After a particularly gruesome nightmare he woke shaking in Derek’s arms with Scott’s name stuck in his throat. His skin tacky from sweat and his chest tight. He curled into Derek’s embrace.

“I had a brother.” It came out before he thought to speak. Derek held the back of his neck and breathed in slowly, guiding Stiles to do the same. His next words came out small.

“Scott. He was-“ there was a smile in his voice, “he was incredible. We met when we were kids, but our parents practically married each other.” All the drop-offs and phone calls and babysitting shared between his dad and Melissa had slowly bloomed into a relationship no one was surprised by. It had been a nice distraction before everything went to shit.

His brow creased at the thought of that mess, “Some rogue Alpha bit him and they- they hunted him when they couldn’t find the Alpha.” They never found out who the man had been, but Stiles would never forget his face. His touch. His whole body clenched at the thought and he pressed his sweaty forehead into Derek’s skin. Focus. Scott got bit and then- “He was betrayed by someone he loved. She killed him and uh-” he cleared the lump in his throat, “burned the body.” 

Slow tears crept out of his eyes and he felt a sudden embarrassment for his lack of composure. Derek said something he missed while his mind was still preoccupied with the past. He’d never understand how Allison did it. She and Scott had been together for over a year, and though Stiles had never trusted the smell of her, he couldn’t deny the way they looked into each others eyes like they were the sun and moon respectively. Countless days he had to watch the way their faces lit up at the mere mention of the other. She was good at it, he never heard the lies or saw her falter, but the guilt for not catching something, anything at all, was a heavy stone he’d carry in his stomach for the rest of his life. 

The back of his eyelids were painted with Allison standing proud with her bow, her arrow in Scott’s cold chest at her feet. He never saw it, didn’t even know until weeks after it had happened, but that didn’t stop his imagination from running with the fact it was her, in the end. The rhythmic motion of a hand soothing over his back pulled him out of the thoughts he’d had countless times before. 

Four years and he couldn’t come to terms with the fact that Allison had killed Scott. 

 

-

 

A few days later he padded around the yard with his orange coat shining in the sun. The grass was tall enough for him to hide his nose in it and barely see over the top. His stomach couldn’t get closer to the ground unless he dug a hole, but that would take too much time and make too much noise. His ears twitched. His left, he’d swear to all those above the noise came from his left. Instinct told him to be still and wait, but his curiosity was too much. All it took was a second to glance to his left and he was done. Derek came in from the right and nipped at his neck before Stiles could even get on all fours. Instead he curled into a ball at Derek’s feet and hid his face in his tail in shame and defeat. They’d been doing this for most of the morning, and even without the eyebrows he knew the unimpressed face Derek would be wearing. Stiles had tried to explain it to him.

“I wasn’t born like this! I’ve never had another shifter break it down for me. We should all just feel lucky I figured out how to shift back, okay? Because that took four days!” Four days of his father desperately looking for any way to explain it to him from an outsider's perspective. Of worried looks and gentle pats and tension that got thicker every hour he remained covered in fur. John didn’t know a lot. He had never asked or pried because he knew it wasn’t something his wife enjoyed talking about. All he had to go on were things said in passing and moments she’d spend complaining about this or that. It was hardly enough. 

No, it wasn’t enough by half. 

It took four days until he started thinking it was permanent and his dad was going to live the rest of his life alone and Stiles couldn’t do that to the man who’d raised him. Not his dad. He’d thought of all the memories he had of his father, all the memories he wanted to make still. He’d shifted back and started to understand the word ‘anchor’ a bit more.

Derek huffed through his snout and rolled his eyes at Stiles’ antics. He headed for the house, clearly having read Stiles’ mind and deciding it was time for a break. Stiles tried to walk it off. It’s not like he hadn’t heard Derek coming, he’d just been distracted. His feet dragged all the way to the front door. After lunch they’d be going over scents and Stiles was overjoyed at the thought. He figured it showed by the way Derek all but shoved him back outside after a quick sandwich.

 

-

 

It slipped out with little thought. Quick and mindless, like most of his actions in those days.

“Good boy.”

Stiles stumbled over his own paws. At first Derek thought it was just a slip. Then Stiles turned face and snarled, bared his teeth with his eyes glowing brighter than he’d ever seen. Derek stood his ground, but only just. Stiles had never challenged him, and after a seconds pause Derek could see that it wasn’t a true challenge. It was anger. With one last spiteful growl Stiles turned and stormed for the cabin. He shifted back to two feet as he went and slammed the front door so hard it rebounded and hung ajar. Derek was left unsure of what line had been crossed to garner such a reaction. Slowly he followed after Stiles.

He walked through the cabin and found him sitting on the back porch steps with a small branch in hand. Stiles had thrown on sweats, new ones with the scent of a store and strangers still lingering. It was odd to see him in clothes that fit him. It made him seem less a child in his big brother's clothes and more the man he was on the verge of being. The anger settled on his face pronounced the angles of his cheeks and the line of his clenched jaw. Moments like this came infrequently. Where Derek would step back and remember he did not know Stiles as well as his instincts told him he did. His emotions clouded the reality of the fact that Stiles’ life before showing up on his doorstep held secrets he had to earn. Stiles pointedly did not look at Derek as he approached and stood against the porch railing.

“I can’t apologise when I don’t know the error I’ve made.” Derek said reasonably.

SNAP

The branch in Stiles’ hands was now two.

“You’re not the first Alpha I’ve met.” Stiles kept his gaze straight as he replied, “There’s a pull to you, just the same as him.”

Well. It was not what Derek was expecting. He knew, of course, Stiles would feel the pull in some way. He knew because it was quite absurd how quickly he’d adjusted to listening to Derek, to living in a strangers space away from family and the feel of home. But Derek inherited the Alpha powers, which had to mean he was the last Hale alive. Wasn’t he?

SNAP

There were now four twigs in Stiles’ white knuckles.

“An Alpha’s word is law. And it’s not- you don’t use it like he did. I mean, you push me around, sure, but I listen because I want to.” He looked at Derek now for the first time and his gaze was piercing.

“It would be easy for me to say no. It’d be easy.” A rim of flaming orange still burned in his eyes and Derek knew Stiles was strong enough to hold his free will. Derek had never used his power to force obedience on anyone; there’d never been cause for it. Anything he told Stiles to do would have felt more like a suggestion on his senses; he’d be compelled to please, but as he’d said, it’d be easy enough to ignore.

“With him there was no choice. You obeyed because Alpha, he- I- there was a girl.” Derek froze. “Not- not like- well kinda like that, but she- I mean she never- sorry let me just-“ Stiles threw the twigs down and scrubbed his face with his hands and then held them in front of him to explain.

“I loved Lydia since the age of 8 when she graced us with her presence. I loved her knowing she would never love me back, but I did it anyway because she was worth it. She was brilliant, and beautiful, and didn’t take shit from anyone and when I got to dance with her at prom I thought I’d won the damn lottery.” He had a small bitter smile on his face as he stared over Derek’s shoulder like he could see her. Maybe he could. It was wiped away with the sourness of his next words.

“After the dance I found her on the field. Her blood was- it was everywhere. She was covered in bite marks and he- god he just stood there looking smug.” Stiles looked back out across the yard, then down to his hands that didn’t know if they should be clenched in fists or twisted together. He’d slowly angled his whole body away from Derek.

“He was Scott’s Alpha. We’d been able to avoid him until that night. He told me-” His whole body clenched and Derek didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to know what this man had said to make Stiles shrink in on himself at the thought of it. Who could reduce such a strong and fiery young man into a fearful child so quickly. His next words come out choked and small. “He told me I wouldn’t say no. That whatever he wanted he could take, and he’d make me like it.” 

Anger filled Derek so quick he was dizzy with it.

In one last huff Stiles said, “He told me I was a good boy.”

SNAP

The railing under Derek’s hands split.

Derek pushed himself up straight and ran a hand through his hair if only so he didn’t punch something. He sees how small Stiles had become when only minutes ago he’d been filled with his own righteous anger and it made it worse. Laura’s voice came in the back of his head telling him to control his temper, but it was hard when all he saw-

Peter.

It had to have been. Stiles ran here on foot. By the time he got there he was skin and bone and delirious. Close to five hundred miles between Derek’s place in the woods and Beacon Hills, the place Derek had found Laura. Where he’d killed Peter and become Alpha. The knowledge that he’d killed the Alpha responsible for harming Stiles is a minor balm that couldn’t soothe the knowledge of what his own uncle had done.

He tried to connect all the dots. He hadn’t known of the beta, Scott. He thinks back on the time he spent in Beacon Hills and told himself he didn’t feel the pull of Pack after he’d gained Alpha status. Truthfully, it was the closest he’d ever come to feral. The Alpha power had been overwhelming and barely controllable, the grief of avenging his sister had brought a madness to his mind he hadn’t expected.

It would explain why Stiles had felt the pull to Peter. His blood sang to the Hale line, similar to the way Pack recognized pack. It was tied in a bond Derek knew from watching his mother seal it with a female fox when he was a pup himself. Derek had recognized it mere moments after finding Stiles at the base of a tree. Instinct told him protect and provide, it would tell Stiles to trust and obey. Peter had known. There is no doubt Peter had taken one look and known and he -

Derek wouldn’t tell Stiles, he decided. He’d thought to do it earlier and hadn’t found any reason to withhold the knowledge of the bond, only lacking the words to describe it aptly had kept him silent. Now he couldn’t. Not when Peter’s actions would become that much worse, when Derek’s own impulses could be twisted with the comparison. Derek thought back to the heat of Peter’s blood on his claws in an attempt to tame the rage swelling in him.

“I’m sorry, Stiles. I won't say it again.” He knew there was more to say, but he couldn’t stand to look at the boy’s hunched figure any longer. He turned his back and walked away from Stiles and thoughts of murder. 

 

-

 

Remembering the shit short straw Lydia had pulled by being his date, the way the Alpha had asked him to beg and how quickly he’d dropped to his knees hadn’t been on the top of his to-do list, but in a way it had its positives. Derek watched his words so carefully Stiles had to physically push him over to get a proper reaction. They sorted it out with words after that, more so on Stiles’ part but that was normal. Orders were fine- to a point. Praise was fine- to a point. Physical contact was fine, but they didn’t mention that at all. Derek was tentative with it to start, but it didn’t take long for comfortable leaning and explicit hand holding to continue as normal. Still, there was something in the way Derek looked at him when he feared he’d gone too far, and even with him close it was like Derek was doing everything from a step away. With space came clarity. 

The forest was beautiful around the cabin. Stiles had yet to hear anything other than the hunting and nesting of wild creatures in the woods. They scampered away and tucked themselves tight into their burrows in natural fear of predators when Stiles and Derek raced through on four paws each. The noises and sights were soothing to him at first, but now they brought an unsettled feeling under Stiles skin. Sitting in the clearing of the backyard and looking up to the sky he thought of home for the first time in too long. 

Between the pines time passed in waves, days stretched out long in spring rain and sped up in the chase of warmer days. Derek didn’t have a calendar and his only electronic gadget was an ancient laptop he kept more as a paperweight for how often Stiles saw it used. Stiles had guessed two months. Maybe, stretching it, three. He asked Derek when a guess wasn’t good enough and the thought itched in his mind. It took Derek an embarrassing moment to admit he didn’t know the date. He went to find out, it involved booting up the ancient laptop until finally-

“June second. It’s Saturday.”

Stiles ran on a Sunday. In January.

Five months since he’d seen his father. He’d thought of him regularly, but not enough. Not when he could have been dead for months and Stiles would have no idea. At first he’d stayed away in hopes the hunters would forget, or move on to something bigger. But how was he to know when he had no way of contacting someone from the middle of the fucking woods in a state he couldn’t name. Oregon, Washington, he couldn’t be certain and had never asked. How was his father supposed to contact him if he didn’t even know his own location?

“I need a phone. Not yours,” he rushed. He knew Derek had a landline. Somewhere. The call in itself would be a risk, he didn’t want to add to it by making it traceable. “A different one. Will you take me?”

Derek grumbled a bit but agreed to drive. Stiles got the feeling he didn’t like society, going by the ‘hermit cabin in the woods’ vibe he had going.

They went to a gas station two towns over. In the meticulously cared for pick-up truck they left before breakfast and arrived as the afternoon sun hung hot and heavy. The trees had faded away and left them on backcountry roads between fields. The station itself was deserted and old enough to still have a payphone. Derek sacrificed the change from the trucks cup holder.

Stiles ignored the shake in his fingers when he dialled a number he’d known almost as long as his own name. It rang seven times before it went to voicemail. The sound of his father's voice brought both relief and anxiety. He reminded himself of his fathers ever changing work schedule and long hours. There was no ignoring the shake in his fingers the second time with Derek’s gaze on him while he hung up and dialled a different number and the extension.

“Beacon County Sheriff's Department, this is Sheriff Stilinski.”

Stiles froze. He’d sat in the damn truck nearly all day anticipating this phone call and now had no idea what to say. He swallowed down all the things flooding to the tip of his tongue and tried to recall the situation they were in, the situation that had caused him to leave in the first place.

“Is your door closed?”

A sharp breath and the click of a door followed.

“Yes.” His dad’s voice was tight, like when he was trying to be the Sheriff and not a father. Stiles squeezed his eyes and shuddered out a breath. It was hard not to say everything. He couldn’t be sure what the Argents had access to, who they were paying, if they knew whose son he was.

“I’d like to report a missing person,” the words tasted sour in his mouth.

“When was the last time you saw them?” His father's voice was professional, if a bit rough. It hurt something painful. He’s never used his Sherriff voice on Stiles, not when it counted.

“ January. A Sunday in January.”

“And do you,” The Sheriff cleared his throat. “Do you have an idea of where they might have been when they disappeared?”

“North, they were headed north. I think they have a friend up there.” He hoped his father understood.

“That’s good. That’s really good to hear. Hopefully they’ve just gone for a surprise visit.” He heard the relief in his father’s voice, but there was still a catch to it. “We’ve had a few surprises here ourselves.”

“Oh?”

“A deputy found something odd at a recent crime scene. It was the blood of another missing person, thought to be dead honestly. We’ve had to reopen his case from four years ago.” It didn’t make sense until it lined up in Stiles’ head.

“Really That uh- hmm.” A dull ringing swelled in his ears, it grew with a terrible numbness in his limbs. He barely caught his father's next words.

“I think if your friend shows back up he might have some knowledge that could help us”

“Right, well uh- thank you Sheriff. I think my friend will come home soon, I’ll have him contact you.” He felt like he was on autopilot, he was hardly aware of the words he was saying.

“That would be- Thank you. Good luck.”

“Right.”

Derek was inches away when he looked up, a hand slowly resting between his shoulder blades.

“I have to go back. I have to- Scott he’s-“ The white noise finally took over his senses; cement solidified between his ribs and pressed on his lungs.

He couldn’t-

Breathe he couldn’t-

Stand.

Steady arms drag him to the truck, his feet falling over eachother clumsily over cracked pavement but the firm hands kept him up and moving until they reached the truck. The hands released him and gravity dropsped him roughly into crouch by the tire. Gravel crunched under his sneakers, Derek's gaze on his was heavy, but the sour bile int the back of his throat kept him from making an attempt to speak. What would he have said? There was-

Scott’s blood. They found Scott’s blood at a crime scene.

Scott was alive.


	2. Secrets

“I have to go back.” The words were inevitable, Derek knew they would come as soon as he’d heard the Sheriffs voice on the phone from twenty feet away. “I have to go back and find Scott. I’d really- I mean if you wanted to-“ Stiles threw his elbow on the open window and put a hand to his hair. Derek watched in silence as slim fingers pulled on the strands in a way that looked painful, “It’d be cool if you came with. I know you probably don’t want to leave your den of brooding and bitterness, but I’d-“

“No.” He didn’t want to see the way Stiles flinched at the word, like he’d been hit, so he looked out to the deserted gas station beyond the dusty windshield. The phone booth sat unassumingly in front of him and he wishes the chord had been cut when they arrived. God fucking damnit. Beacon Hills. He regretted leaving the house this morning. Stiles’ mind practically made noise as it worked in the silence of the stationary vehicle and Derek huffed. He owed him more than one word. “I won't go with you, Stiles. You are free to leave whenever, you’ve always known that,” He looked at Stiles to make sure he had always known that, “but I won't go to Beacon Hills.” 

He couldn’t. All the place held for him was the phantom of Kate’s touch and the sight of Laura’s pale face in the dirt. And the kid. God, it was all fucking with Derek’s mind. There was a kid out there who’d been bitten by the uncle he’d killed. He had a beta. Pack. 

The knowledge drove Derek mad. How had he not felt it? He thought back to the time he spent in Beacon Hills, at first ravenous for revenge, then consumed with too much power, no room left in his mind to even consider betas of Peter’s making. When Stiles had mentioned it he’d assumed the kid died before Derek gained Alpha status, but even then, after the power switch they should have been driven together. Instinct would have brought them together. He wondered if the kid ever felt the pull of their connection. Derek never looked too hard for one, but n he’d never felt the pull to Stiles before he found him either. Maybe that’s the way it worked. All he could do was assume, and he hated the guessing game that came from not having an elder to ask. Either way, it was no more his problem than it had been before Stiles arrived in his life. If there was some wild beta of his, he’d been doing just fine without Derek. 

“Well, okay.” Stiles either had the sense not to push it or didn’t particularly care what Derek decided to do because he agreed rather easily. They sat in silence for a moment in the truck, both lost in thought. Stiles broke first, of course.

“As fun as running for my life really was, do you think you could you drive me part way? Maybe drop me at a bus stop with some change? I uh, I don’t have a lot of options in the transportation department.” Stiles squinted over at him against the setting sun. 

“Now?” A weight dropped in his stomach. Right now? As in, Stiles leaving possibly forever, right now? Maybe he wasn’t as okay with it as he’d thought. 

Stiles shrugged.

“Nothing to pack when I left everything at home. The things at yours you bought so, you know, do as you like. Not that I don’t appreciate them, because I do, it’s just I should really get back, like, now. And I don’t know if I’ll-“ He faltered, “You know, come back.” He glanced quickly to Derek, then away.

Derek’s mind went blank. Stiles leaving and never returning. Stiles possibly dying under a hunters hand and Derek miles away because he was too much a coward. 

He jammed the keys into the ignition and started the truck and aggressively didn’t think about what he was doing.

“I’ll drive you there, but I won't stick around.”

 

The drive was a form of torture. The silence suffocated Derek slowly with the freedom it gave his mind. He didn’t know what they would find in Beacon Hills. With his luck it’d end with another body in the ground. Stiles kept to himself, the sweat of his stress obvious, but he kept his body tucked away out of reach.

They stopped for food with hardly a word passed between them. The world around them grew hazy and pink, then purple, then dark. Derek had been driving since the birds woke him and his eyes started to fall shut on the relatively straight and empty road ahead. Stiles sagged against the window, but the memory of his face when he’d been on the phone with his father kept Derek from trying to convince him to stop for the night. 

It was a ghost town when they arrive. The cinema he took Kate to still stood on the North side of town and the café where they’d had their first aggressive kiss had it’s blinds drawn for the night. Every street he’d driven with her hand on his thigh was the same. It pulled on his gut. He was reminded of nails scratching down his back and a sharp laugh. He grinded his jaw and pressed his fingers reassuringly into the steering wheel divots. Stiles, he’s here for Stiles and this beta that allegedly belonged to him, and then he’d be out of Beacon Hills for good. 

It didn’t sound as convincing as it did the last time he’d said it several years earlier.

 

\---

 

Stiles’ mind obsessed over the few things he remembered of the last moments he spent with Scott. 

He’d been delirious with pain and blood loss and all he’d been able to think about was how the door on the old Hale house would have to be replaced after Scott kicked it in. They’d come straight from the Argent basement with no better place to go and Scott had rambled into his phone about getting help for Stiles. Stiles had thought it unfair Scott hadn’t mentioned his own injuries, like the residual effects of electrocution sending tremors through his limbs and the fair amount of burn marks covering his body, and the most significant fact that they weren’t healing. Scott had dropped to the floor and sat with him, Stiles’ head in his lap, and whispered encouragements that Stiles couldn’t hear through the pain. He remembered Melisa arriving in a flurry of nurse smocks and practical footwear.

Scott’s strong arms had hoisted him up to get to the car and the world had turned sideways. 

“Hold on buddy, you’re gonna be fine. We’re good, we’re walking, almost there bud.”

That’s it. 

He didn’t remember which car Mellissa drove or if he sat in the front or the back. He’d passed out from the pain before they even reached the kicked in front door. 

That was it. The last time he’d seen Scott. The last time anyone had seen Scott.

Scott told his mother, who had been in shock at the sight of them, that he had to get something but he’d find her after. He never did. By the time Stiles returned to the Hale house three days and a rainfall had passed. There was nothing but old blood from the both of them and a door that didn’t shut. Melissa hadn’t heard a word, Allison was nowhere to be seen, and at some point Stiles had started to feel like a limb was missing and he was ten feet under water, surrounded by invisible pressure and unable to breathe. The feeling never truly went away, he’d simply became good at ignoring it.

Chris who told him in the end. Five weeks later with not a drop of news and a missing persons campaign that had grown stale throughout the town. Stiles had appeared in public places tentatively and under the watchful eyes of his father until they were certain the Argents hadn’t identified him. Full of jitters he’d started driving in hopes of finding something, anything. Anything was better than sitting at home and doing nothing. Driving required gas.

“Stiles,”

Stiles whipped his body around so fast he had slammed his elbow against the gas pump, he clenched his jaw in an effort not to yell out at the sharp pain. Chris looked nothing like the cat on the prowl he used to mimic. His eyes were bagged and his colour was pale in the harsh fluorescent lights. He stood several feet away from the Jeep and didn’t make a move to come closer.

“Hey, uh... Hey, Mr. Argent,” Stiles greeted nervously, “Have you seen Allison around?”

“I didn’t think she’d do it,” his voice sounded like gravel tumbled in the back of his throat.

Stiles’ whole body went slack like it already knew what his brain couldn’t comprehend, “What?”

Chris looked him in his eyes like he’d rather be anywhere else. 

“I’m not my father, Stiles, and I’m not going to keep his secrets. Gerard ordered Allison to take care of the problem. He shouldn’t have asked, but she did it.” His mouth twisted and he looked sick to his stomach. Stiles had the quick thought Chris was about to vomit or pass out and he had no idea how he’d handle either situation. They would have been preferable to what happened next. 

Chris pressed on. “I’m sorry for what he did to you last year, it’s not how things are meant to be. There’s a code, and it shouldn’t have led to this. I’ve tried my best to make sure they won't come back for you.”

Something was ringing in his ears. Maybe the lights, or the- maybe the machine- yes, he hadn’t swiped his card yet.

“What are you saying?” He squinted at Chris’ shadowy form. It was really hard to think with this noise and jeez these lights were really bright, you’d think they’d do something about-

“Allison killed Scott.” 

Stiles breath caught as soon as the words poisoned the air. He shook his head. “No, she-”

“I saw the body, Stiles,”

His whole body twitched and recoiled. He fumbled against the jeep until his blind hands found the latch and threw himself in. Muscle memory allowed him to start the jeep and drive without seeing.

Body.

There had been a body. Scott’s body. Because Allison had killed Scott.

It started with numbness in his limbs, then tremors, then a loss of every sense he had. He ended up with his knees digging into the side of the road and the contents of his stomach painting the dirt in front of him. His father found him dry heaving there.

And that had been that. His father, as a lawman under the pretence of an ‘unidentified tip’ had approached Chris to be given the rundown as a liaison between the supernatural and law-abiding realities. Unofficially the body had been burned and scattered in a location not even Chris knew. Officially Scott was still filed as missing, presumed deceased, and his case went cold. Mellissa never knew his furry secret and was left with only his slim file and the curse of never having answers. No action could be taken against the Argents with no body and no proof and no motive. Everyone had to move on.

Stiles hadn’t seen Allison since, and it was the only thing to keep him from committing a murder of his own. Now, sitting in a truck with the window open to cool him down, he wondered what really happened. Chris had said there’d been a body to burn, had said Allison had done it under Gerards command, had said- well, Chris had said a lot. Had Stiles been a fool to listen? Yes. Absolutely. He’d known it at the time, but there’d been nothing else. No other information ever came to light. He’d been desperate for answers, and even when it was the worst it was better than absolute silence.

Four years. Scott had been alive for four years. He could have been in the basement for four years and Stiles had done nothing. The thought made him want to claw his eyes out.

The sun quickly faded and the moon took its place, low on the horizon. The blurred scenery passing by his window brought the memory of his paws on the earth for days flitting in more than once, the sheer panic he’d felt sending him running and the pull which kept him going. He didn’t feel the pull to the North anymore. He wondered if it meant he’d been right to come back home. Maybe it was time.

Beacon Hills came into view with nothing grander than the worn hand-painted ‘Welcome’ sign and an arrow towards the visitors kiosk. He directed Derek to the third house from the corner, the only one in the neighbourhood with the lights still on. One look at Derek’s drooping eyes and he invited him to stay the night. Derek shrugged in a way that was neither a yes or a no.

When he got to the front door, he hesitated and stood awkwardly on the porch. He felt like an intruder to his own house. The door ripped open to reveal his father. Stiles mouth was more grimace than smile and his voice shook when he spoke. 

“Hey pops,” and then he was swallowed in a hug so big it hid the way his knees wanted to give out.

When they separated his father glanced over his shoulder at Derek behind him. The uncharacteristic pause of his dad being off guard caught Stiles’ attention.

“My friend, up north.” He ducked his head a bit, unsure about what his face was doing.

He saw Derek hold out his hand, “Mr. Stilinski,”

There was a beat where they shook hands and no one breathed. “Derek. I didn’t know-“ His dad stopped himself and Stiles looked up, unsure what was happening. His dad looked shaken in a way he rarely was. “It’s good to see you, even in unfortunate circumstances.”

His dad moved to let them in and Stiles mentally scheduled a “how the hell do you know each other” conversation for after the more pressing matters were handled. Meanwhile he’d keep looking at the two of them like the answer would appear in the air on a tightly spun string between them. It was there, somewhere in the way Derek wouldn’t look either of them in the eyes and how his father kept glancing at the cupboard where he kept the whiskey. 

 

There was a quick and tearful conversation between father and son about the night Stiles disappeared. Stiles had been caught without warning, and when he’d run the Sheriff had no traces to go on. With no crime scene his dad had only his hope to hold onto and believe that Stiles was still out there. The postcard had been enough of a sign to reassure him. Stiles felt ashamed. The card had been sent months ago. It had been blank, he knew because he’d told Derek to make sure it was. He hadn’t wanted to risk anyone else seeing it. 

He’d been a mess the first few weeks at Derek’s, and the ugly fact was he’d disappeared on his father just as Scott had done, and he’d known exactly what it would look like. As the weeks went on it had become easier to pretend home was further than it was. He told his father he’d been scared of the hunters presence in Beacon Hills and hadn’t known what would be safe for either of them. It was truthful, but not enough to erase the heavy rock of guilt lodged in his throat. 

Through a stilted exchange his dad thanked Derek for looking after him. It was sincere, but there was something off in the tone they used and the way they stood without facing each other. His dad brought out Scott’s case file shortly after and Stiles couldn’t focus on anything else. 

Hours later they sat in the living room, Stiles’ knee bounced in an a way even he felt was aggravating and his dad was slumped next to an empty crystal glass. At some point Stiles looked up from the pages before him only to see the same shadow of defeat he’d seen hanging over Chris Argent fall over his father's face. Two files were thrown on the table like they’d been shut in a rush, papers half out and laid the wrong way to cram themselves into the manila envelopes. One was crisp, the other bent and stained like it’d been handled and thrown a thousand times. 

His dad let out a sigh, “I don’t know Stiles, we can’t assume anything based off of-“

“It’s his blood, right? How else would his blood show up?” They’ve already gone over it, in fact he was certain he’d already said those exact words. After a futile attempt to stay awake Derek had disappeared to the living room, out of sight. 

“It was around and inside the wound. That means it was most likely only on the foreign object.” His dad motioned with his hand at each fact like he was physically marking the points. “It’s possible that it was used on him previous to its appearance here.”

“But his fingerprints were the only ones on the object!” They’ve been avoiding the word ‘arrow’ all night, “Can’t we concur that he was the one who used it?”

“Which makes him a wanted murderer, Stiles.” His dad rubbed at his eyes under his glasses.

Stiles let his head fall to his hands on the table and bit his tongue with the effort not to shout ‘So is Allison, but you don’t see her in jail do you?’

“We know it was self defence.” He said instead.

“We can’t prove it, Stiles, if- and I’m saying a big if- he’s been alive, we have no idea what he’s been through. He hasn’t bothered to contact anyone in four years, that’s a hell of a time for a person to change. We can’t assume that the same Scott we used to know was there that night. To us, this man is a stranger.” 

“What if he couldn’t? What if there was someone or thing keeping him from contacting us? “ A part of him knew he wasn’t listening to what his father was telling him, but a larger part just wanted Scott back. 

“It’s possible,” his dad admitted wearily, probably knowing he wasn’t getting through, “but so are several other possibilities. We won't know anything more until we find him or more evidence.”

Stiles thought of the way Scott’s eyes had involuntarily flashed gold when they met Stiles’ fiery orange. The feel of Scott’ s body pressed against his as they slept head to toes as innocent kids, or crouched and hiding from his father as teenage rascals, solid and slick with blood when he’d dragged him to safety on their final night. He remembered Scott standing over him in defense of a playground bully, Scott pushing him down a hill so he was out of the way when the Alpha charged them, Scott always protecting him no matter what. Scott had been his constant, as certain as the ground beneath his feet Stiles would look to his side and find Scott. That kid, that boy who would now be a man, he would never be a stranger. Stiles knew him down to his bones. 

There was no language in which he could have possibly articulated this to his dad. A need for sleep was pressing on them and made them slow and uncomfortable. He conceded the point for the night and, with a last look to Derek passed out on the couch, let his father shuffle him off to bed.

At the top of the stairs his father took a look at his watch and cursed quietly, “ah crap.” 

It hit just then how much he had missed his father. He couldn’t stop himself from grabbing the man to hold him tight. His dad. His poor, tired dad that loved him so much more than he could ever understand. They’ll never speak of this moment, he knew, but it was already a memory he would never forget. It was the feeling of his father's arms tight around his shoulders and the press of his body warm and strong against his. He felt like a child, like his dad’s arms could keep the world from touching him if he just stayed right where he was. He could feel relief radiate through the both of them at the wholeness of the other. 

 

\---

 

Late the next morning Stiles entered the kitchen to find his father and Derek talking quietly over coffee. His father turned to hand a lukewarm mug to Stiles and the conversation didn’t resume. Stiles absorbed half the mugs contents in one breath and asked his dad about life in town to fill the silence. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have asked. 

A girl at his old high school had become paraplegic after a seizure caused her to fall in the gymnasium. The station was in shock after one of the new deputies had ‘mistakenly’ fatally shot a young man walking home from the ice rink. The deputy had been charged, but the dead man’s younger sister was left to the foster system. To top it off, some guy died tripping down the stairs and they found the body of his kid locked in the basement freezer. From the tone of his father's’ voice he could tell it had been a rough time to be both a parent and a cop.

His dad hesitated before adding, “Lydia’s improved. She’s out next month.”

The hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck stood on end. He’d known, somewhere in the back of his mind, she’d make it out of there someday. After the stitches were sown and casts were dry Lydia had woken up scarred in a way no one could have predicted. She’d been a shadow of herself, jumping at every noise and unable to hold eye contact or a conversation before paranoia took over. She’d talk to herself and to the voices she heard that no one else did. Stiles had visited her at Eichen House as long as he could. There came a point when he’d had to stop.

“He knew you!” She’d accused with hollowed eyes wide beneath the limp hair falling in her face. “You used me just like he did. I knew it! The screaming, you make it so much louder. Get out! Get away from me! You knew him!” 

That had been two years ago. He hadn’t gone since. 

“That’s-“ he swallowed when his voice failed, “ good. That’s good to hear.” He got up from his chair clumsily and walked out to the living room only to find the papers still spread out from the night before. From one shit show to the next, seriously. His life.

 

They go over the known facts.

Mrs. Victoria Argent was found dead on the side of a back road by a cyclist. He wasn’t sorry, given the shining scar he had on his stomach from the last time he’d seen her. Her body had been torn by what seemed to be large claws, and had first been ruled as an animal attack. A closer look found a piece of an arrow lodged in her abdomen. On it had been both Victoria’s congealed blood and a blackened mess that tests proved belonged to one Scott McCall. Beside it had been a partial of his print, in the system only because his dad had let the kids come to the station and do fingerprints and samples as a field trip-esque way to cheer them up after Stiles’ mother passed. Usually only Stiles accompanied him to work, but he’d been overly clingy with Scott for the few months right after the funeral. His father’s plan had worked, they’d loved being at the precinct on a slow day with all the officers giving them attention, but his dad had never expected to put any more of their information in the system.

There had been a lot of Mrs. Argents blood pooled by the body, as to be expected, but nothing more to suggest a real struggle. No paw prints of any predator on the ground, no bloody hand prints on trees or traces of her moving through the bushes in a chase. It looked more like her body had been brought to the spot, quickly shredded, and left. The arrow didn’t fit in. With Scott’s blood and prints as the only found at the scene he was currently considered suspect number one, despite his, now questionable, deceased status. John knew through Stiles, Allison’s weapon of choice had always been crossbow, but there’d been no trace of her. No evidence of where she may have perched to shoot, nor any reason for her to kill her own mother in such a bloody manner. Regardless, no one had seen her in four years.

“We weren’t able to track down Chris Argent, but he’ll be our best bet at getting any real information.” His dad said while he shrugged his jacket over his uniform and knocked his hat off of its hook. “I’ll work on finding him, and hopefully some more information today. You two stay here and make yourselves scarce.” Files in hand and half out the door he looked awkwardly to Stiles. “After a couple weeks I told everyone you decided to go to school and started a spring semester. It’s best it stays that way, yeah?” 

Stiles winced and ducked his head in agreement. He hated the thought of his father sitting here alone, unsure he’d ever see his son again and having to smile at everyone when they say it was a relief he’d finally gone to make something of himself.

Derek had been quiet most of the morning, but he spoke up now.

“You might find Mr. Argent near Dye Creek. It’s in the preserve, by the lookout.” He’d been looking at the window like he could see past the drawn blinds. There was a pause where Stiles really wanted to ask Derek if he knew everyone in the fucking town, but he restrained himself. His father, he could tell by his clenched fist around his hat, did the same.

“Right. Thanks for the tip, Derek.” And then he was out the door and Stiles had a thousand questions and very limited self-control.

 

\---

 

Stiles spun to Derek as soon as the door shut behind the Sheriff, “Care to share anything else with the class?” 

“I’ve dealt with the Argents before.” He blinked the vision of blond curls out of his mind. He knew Stiles would ask for more, so preemptively he laid it out as quick and blunt as he could. “One of theirs murdered my pack, I killed her back.” It hadn’t been satisfying, just as Laura had told him it wouldn’t be. Staring at Kates lifeless body did nothing to relieve the guilt he’d stockpiled in the six years it took to track her down. Stiles is thrown, he can tell by the wide set of his mouth, but whatever he saw on Derek’s face makes him lick his lips in hesitation before moving on. 

“And you know my dad because?” Stiles lilted his voice leadingly and arched an expectant eyebrow at him.

“Your mother knew mine. They were-” Claudia handing his mother a blood soaked dagger in the middle of a ceremonial ring came to mind, “friends.”

The words were uncomfortable on Derek’s tongue. Even though Stiles hummed in dissatisfaction he didn’t push further. Instead he rather abruptly stalked back to the kitchen, giving Derek a much needed moment to catch his breath. 

The Sheriff had woken him early to interrogate him. It was to be expected, given the circumstances, but after sixteen hours of driving the day before and the first night in months he hadn’t slept in the same bed as Stiles, Derek had not been in the mood to admit how little he knew. Growing up he’d barely seen or heard of Claudia. She’d preferred his mother’s solo company, and even that rarely. In children's tales he’d learned the basics of the fox legacy. He knew its spirit would have passed to Stiles after his mother's death, and with it the connections to the pack. It bothered him. The boy should have seeked him out then, when the bond would have hit him fully for the first time. He didn’t tell the Sheriff, but the more he thought about it the more it troubled him.

“Christ,” the Sheriff had said when told just how far Stiles had run. “And this,” he made a very Stilinski-esque gesture with his hand, “thing, he could feel it from here? It brought him all that way?” 

Derek had nodded. Any blood of Claudia’s would be drawn to the blood of Hale. After the ceremony he remembered distantly that his siblings had been gathered before school and told they weren’t to bother or mention the Stilinski’s if they saw them around town. It’s a vague memory, one that stood out only because Cora had stolen ‘his’ chair and they’d been struggling silently over it while their father talked. It had broken under their aggressive fighting and the two of them were grounded for several weeks. It was the first and last time he could recall thinking the name ‘Stilinski’ because its foreign sound stuck out to his childish mind. He hadn’t thought of it again until he’d found the boy months ago.

The Sheriff didn’t talk of keeping things from Stiles. Neither did he mention telling him. 

 

Derek was pulled out of his brooding when Stiles dropped next to him on the couch. A glance told him he was just as stuck in his own thoughts as Derek had been. 

“What if- do you think- What if it’s his Alpha?” Stiles asked. Derek closed his eyes at the thought of Peter. He shrugged his shoulders in an effort to concentrate on how he would say what he needed to. 

Stiles continued to ramble with flailing limbs he thought helped explain his words. “We never found out where he went, and then Scott was gone. The Argents sent out their goons too but Alli- we heard they didn’t find him. He could have Scott, right? I mean, then there’s Chris, but maybe they’re all working together.” 

“It’s not his Alpha.” Derek gritted out, palm over his face.

“How would you know?” There's an edge in Stiles’ voice and Derek wished he didn’t know what put it there. “The guy was insane. Like, ate fruit-loops and drank the kool-aid crazy.”

When Derek opened his eyes he stared at the blank TV. “It was my uncle,” Derek said to his own reflection, “And I killed him.”

“Oh.” The silence that followed was the kind that suffocated you slowly. Derek could feel the space between them on the couch down to the millimeter. With Stiles’ father around he’d kept his hands to himself. Now, of course now that Stiles was a pent up ball of energy seated less than two feet away from him, he wanted nothing more than to reach over and do whatever he could to fix it. He was stopped only by the thought that he couldn’t fix anything, and he doubted his touch would be welcome. 

The moment Stiles put it together the kid actually jumped to his feet.

“You! You’re his Alpha now?!” Derek could see him reflected in the TV when he put a hand to his forehead in concentration and kept moving on the spot. “Can’t you- like, well call him? Feel him?”

“It doesn’t work like that, Stiles,” he sighed.

“What do you mean it doesn’t?” Stiles said, exasperated. “Scott told me over and over in the beginning that he could feel his Alpha when he was close, when he wanted him to come back and obey and hooo- no, this is never going to be not weird.” His limbs tended to move in tandem with his thought. A habit Derek recognized from the Sheriff. 

Finally, he looked at the real Stiles, who stood hovering beside him anxiously. 

“I can’t feel him because I’ve never known he was there to begin with. Pack is like limb, you don’t notice the bones in your arm any more or less one day from the next because they’re always there. You wouldn’t notice until the day they’re not,” he tried to explain without thinking of what was no longer there. “I don’t feel it with him like I feel it with y-“ Derek stutters, “Like I felt it with my family.” He groaned inwardly at his slip, but Stiles was too busy with other thoughts to notice it.

Stiles looked tense, his eyes unfocused like he was thinking a thousand things at once and was using every facility he had to think them. In a huff he shook his head and stormed up the stairs. Derek sagged into the couch, hand over his face. He should have never come back. It was a mistake to get mixed into another fight with the Argents since they were no doubt still after his blood for killing Kate. Without the ability to locate Scott there was little he could do besides make the situation worse for Stiles whenever they discovered he was here. He would have left already if he had stronger willpower. 

They spent the day both aggressively tense. Stiles couldn’t sit still. Noises above him told Derek of furniture moved and things thrown in what he assumed was Stiles’ bedroom. Derek knew grief, knew what denial and anger and guilt smelled like on a person. He stayed downstairs. In a cleared space in the living room he did exercise circuits he’d done in the tiny New York apartment he’d shared with Laura. A quick shower rinsed the lingering dust of the car ride and sweat of the day off. The lunch he left on the table for Stiles went untouched when the boy didn’t come down. Hours past an acceptable dinner time he headed up the stairs with a plate for Stiles. 

He tried, for what is was worth, to feel something like pack, something like Scott. It felt similar to the time Laura had mentioned meditation and he’d sat going stiff on the floor. The longer he tried, the more ridiculous he felt. Anything he might have been able to feel was obliterated by the overwhelming anxiety steaming from Stiles upstairs. 

Stile’s bedroom door opened in a puff of dust and stuffy air, but sat in a worn desk chair Stiles looked well suited for the place. There were stacks of papers all over the desk, files and binders kept messily at his feet and around the room in a way which told not of disorganization but of a lack of space. And the walls.

At some point the walls had been painted a colour, but Derek doubted he’d ever know which one. Newspaper articles, crime scene photos, mug shots, sticky notes, and over it all was a messy scrawl squished to fit in any available place. String and thumb tacks in a multitude of colours connected them all in a series of webs. Some connected to each other, some were sectioned off in a corner seemingly unrelated to anything else. It was messy and cluttered and very, Derek thought, lived in. Derek looked at the back of Stiles’ head as he typed away at a computer. Something in the set of his shoulders reminded him once again that he knew little of the boys past.

He looked back to the walls. The Argents had their own web, a family photo in the centre. Mrs. Argents face was already crossed off. Kates ghost smiled back with a small question mark on her face. Next to her stood her timid brother Chris and a young girl, Derek assumed she was the daughter, Allison. Next to her was a thumbtack with red string tied to it. Derek followed it halfway across the wall to a small photo of a young man. Something about him was familiar, like Derek knew him. An answer tugged on his mind but he couldn’t place this boy anywhere in his history, and yet he felt so familiar. Beneath the photo was an article headed “Local Boy Missing”

“This is Scott?” He asked, more surprised than thinking. It was a habit he’d picked up from Stiles.

Stiles turned to glance at the photo and nodded shortly, humming in agreement. Derek took another hard look at the photo. He still couldn’t place him. The article was dated May 27 of 2012, almost a full month before Derek was in town. Maybe he’d seen the photos when getting gas on his way out. Derek lingered in Stiles’ space when he finally took the plate of food from him. In what he hoped was a casual move he raked his hands through Stiles’ hair before stepping away to settle on the bed, it being the only surface available to sit on. He couldn’t recognize the pages Stiles sifted through on the computer. If he had to guess, he’d say he was conversing with someone. By the noises of frustration coming from him it didn’t go the way he’d like. 

Midnight had long come and gone when Stiles blearily blinked his eyes and spun around to face Derek.

“I can’t find a single trace of anyone, and Danny’s got a buttload of nothing.” He said and looked defeated. He took a cell phone from his pocket and frowned at it’s empty screen. “Something’s wrong.”

Derek watched as Stiles made a call and held the phone to his ear. An answering machine started it’s spiel and Stiles hung up before calling again. Derek wasn’t sure what was happening, but the rabbit tempo of Stiles’ heart set him on edge. Someone picked up this time. 

“Beacon County Sheriff’s Department, how may I assist you?” Derek watched as Stiles’ brow creased at the voice. 

“Who are you?” He scowled into the phone.

“Deputy Parrish, may I ask who this is?” Several feet away from the phone Derek could catch the hint of attitude that matched Stiles’ snark. 

“Yeah, it’s Stiles Stilinski.” Stiles said impatiently. “Is my dad still on the clock?” 

 

“Ah, the infamous son. Sorry kid, his shift ended hours ago. Did you need something?” 

The silent pocket of air was deafening. 

“When? When did he leave exactly?” Stiles stressed. Derek watched as his fingers curled tightly around the phone and had a fleeting worry the device would break in his hold. 

“Earlier than usual, one thirty seven if I had to guess,” the man said in a way that was not a guess. “Stiles, is there something I should know?”

“No.” He hung up and pressed the phone to his forehead. 

“I’m such an idiot, holy fuck!” Stiles groaned. Derek wasn’t sure how Stiles could be at fault, but he saw the warning signs that were usually associated with sweaty sheets and moonlight. Stiles’ hands were trembling and his breathing shallow and quick. 

“Hey,” Derek got no response when he moved off the bed, “Stiles, hey,” he placed his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck. 

“He was supposed to check in,” Stiles burst, “two hours ago he should have called to say he was on his way home.” With a few fumbled taps he held up the phone and it’s damning recent call history, empty but for the two he’d just made. When his eyes found Derek’s there was such avid fear in them it startled him. 

“We’ll find him.” He promised, but he couldn’t stop the tone of his voice from being grim. 

 

Derek remembered the place he told the Sheriff to scout. Truthfully, it had been a wild guess. A strong idolisation of Peter as a boy found Derek following his uncle everywhere and badgering him with the inane questions of a child. Similarly to Stiles now. The longer he’d followed the more he’d realised Peter Hale had more secrets than he could properly keep. Specifically when it came to Christopher Argent. When Derek followed Peter to Dye Creek he’d imagined he’d catch Peter with a girl, maybe tease him about it later. Instead he found him meeting with Chris. They didn’t do much, just hung out and talked and joked like most adults did when kids weren’t around. Derek only followed Peter out there a handful of times, stopping when something about it felt too private to be joked about. 

Derek found Chris hunched on the shore of the creek a lifetime later, both on the hunt for a rabid Alpha. 

“Sometimes it’s the ones closest that hurt us the most.” Chris had said, his eyes never leaving the water raging several feet below him. 

He’d left in silence, leaving Chris to his own grief. 

The morning he’d told the Sheriff to look there it had been incase he would find not a man, but a body. Derek hoped he had not been in error of whom it would be found on the shore.

 

\---

 

John Stilinski was old. He was reminded every time he stood up from his desk chair and groaned at his stiff joints, every time he squinted at a piece of paper when he couldn’t find his reading glasses, every time he thought of his wife and could hardly remember the sound of her laugh. He liked the new Deputy, but some days he’d look at Parrish and all he could see was himself twenty years ago. It was hard not to be a little bitter about it. Leaving the kid to the night shift made it a bit better. At least seniority gave him something. 

“Keep a weathered eye on the horizon, Parrish” He called as he headed towards the door. Parrish matched his wry grin. 

“Aye aye sir,” he said with a lazy salute.

The patrol car was cold when he sunk into the familiar driver's seat. He’d checked the creek Derek, Derek Hale jesus, had mentioned in the morning. There’d been nothing. Not a single trace any person or vehicle had ever visited the place. Paperwork had locked him in the office for the rest of the day. He looked at his watch already knowing it would read fifteen minutes before his shift officially ended. One more drive by couldn’t hurt. After all, if he were a crazy man running around hunting people with a gun he’d probably do most of his it at night, too. 

In the silence of the car he drove through streets he’d driven on his entire life and the thoughts he’d been blocking out all day rushed over him. Stiles, his son, was alive. The relief of hearing his voice over the phone and in person, on his doorstep, was absolutely crushing. Some days he still felt the stupidest thing he’d ever done was not officially report Stiles as missing, regardless of the face that he couldn’t have. He’d seen Melissa when they were looking for Scott, how she’d slowly broken down every time she’d heard the words ‘nothing more to report’. She’d raved and cried and screamed maddeningly loud about how helpless she was to it all. That won’t be me, he’d thought, I won’t let that happen to me. I will find my boy.

The longer he’d waited in an empty house he’d regretted not officially filing it more and more. He still insisted he couldn’t have handed his son over to another department and have thought in good faith they’d have done a better job than he could, not knowing that his boy could be running on four paws instead of two feet. The fact of it was, there’d been nothing. Stiles walked out the front door one day and didn’t come back the next. Five months and that had still been all he’d known. 

The orange glow of city lights slowly petered out until the car was filled with only the dim glow of the dash. He drove on. 

He remembered sitting in his office during the interview with Parrish and thinking, this is it, this is the one who will sit on the other side of this desk one day. When Jordan had closed the office door behind him he’d smothered tears into his palm. Stiles had always talked about walking in his father's footsteps. It was a stupid, prideful thing that swelled in his chest at the words and made John want to cuff him on the back of the head and hug him at the same time. He’d known Stiles wasn’t ready right out of high school, not after everything he’d gone through. He wasn’t quite sure what Stiles would do, after all that, but he’d been sure not to pressure him into making any decisions prematurely. Then, on a regular day like any other, John had found Stiles eyeing the pamphlets in the front lobby again just before he’d left. 

“Next year dad,” he’d said with a wry smile on his lips, “next year I’ll join up and it’ll be you ‘n me against the world.” 

Looking at him then, backlit by the windows in the waiting room with his hands crammed into his pockets, he’d believed Stiles. His son looked grown and healthy and content in a way he hadn’t ever been. 

It had all gone to shit shortly after, of course, but it still felt like a betrayal to have thought of anyone else taking his place.

Now John sat in the slowly crawling patrol car and glanced at his watch. Ten minutes. He’d wait ten minutes for any bat shit craziness to happen and then he was going home to hug his son and possibly punch Derek Hale, werewolf or not, depending on how close the man was sitting to said son. John was not a blind man. 

Leaving the now warm car was hard, but that was the job. 

“Right,” he grumbled and inched the door shut. He didn’t slam it for the same reason he hadn’t used his lights for the last three minutes of rolling into the trees. Finding people was easier when they didn’t know you were looking. It would surprise him, later, that it took so little time for him to see a silhouette in the dark. He brought his flashlight up and clicked it on, gun ready beneath it. 

“Allison?” He said dumbly. There was no one else it could be. She was never officially reported, he knew, but she’d been out of town for four years. He also knew Stiles was adamant she was the one who killed Scott. 

“Sheriff,” Her tone reflected his surprise, “what are you doing?” she asked as though it was he who was out of line. Quickly he pointed his gun and flashlight to the ground at her feet. 

“My job,” he said, eyeing her crossbow uneasily, “I’m looking for your father to inform him of-” He hesitated, unsure if she knew.

“My mother's death.” She finished for him, but something in his gut told him her reaction wasn’t right. Her eyes were wet, but her tone too flat.

“Yes,” He agreed. He kept his eyes on hers instead of the weapon in her hands. “Allison, I’ll need you to come to the station with me-”

“I’m sorry about Stiles,” she interrupted in a half yell over both him and the rushing creek nearby.

For a moment so brief it was more of a flash, it hurt, because he believed there was something truly to be sorry for. But then he remembered Stiles that morning sitting in his kitchen with his third cup of coffee. Suspicion grew when he remembered that no one should have known he was missing in the first place. He’d told everyone about Stiles going to Berkley. 

“What about him?” If he could keep her talking, he’d find a way to bring her back. Hopefully with both of them unharmed. 

The tears that had been slowly building in her eyes dropped as she spoke, “I know she killed him.” He waited as she struggled to control herself. The only light came from the bounce of his flashlight and the pale reflection of the ripened moon on the water, enough to watch her shake her head and clear her throat. “I know my mother killed Stiles five months ago,” she started again, “because Scott found the knife she’d used.” 

The words settled something in him that he’d been struggling with for years. It had been hard to believe anything without proof, without someone or thing to show him enough pieces for the answers to fit themselves together. Finally, something inside him sighed, finally we will know what the puzzle looks like. 

“Scott knew my family wouldn’t stop until he was dead. He asked me to help and I’d do anything,” her voice wavered, “but I could only get one body from the funeral home and I thought Stiles would still be safe if Scott was gone. So we dressed the body in Scott’s clothes and torched it,” the more she talked the faster her words were and the higher her voice got. 

“Gerard believed me when I said I’d been getting close to Scott as a tactic and took him out. I told them I was going to school abroad, so we’ve been able to keep our distance. It’s hard for him to stay away though, Scott,” She takes a great breath of air and John took the moment to swell with relief at the still new revelation that Scott was alive, “he always wants to know what everyone’s doing. And then he found the blood, and the knife with my mom, and I’m so sorry Mr. Stilinski, I didn’t think they knew!” Her shoulders shook and John could only now get a word in.

“It’s okay Allison,” he said calmly, “Stiles is alive.”

A look of pure shock took over her face. It was so heartbreakingly hopeful it reminded John of how terribly young she was. It morphed quickly into one of confusion. 

“But Scott doesn’t know that,” she said, as though to herself. 

“Where is Scott now?” He tried not to sound too eager, but it was a lost cause. A few more pieces and he’d have a full set of answers to start putting together. 

“Without Stiles he doesn’t have an anchor,” she said looking pained, “He lost control when he found the knife. I tried to talk to him but he was almost completely feral. He went after my mom. I shot him, in the leg,” she grimaced as she said it, “it worked to pull him back to himself, but only until my mother charged him. He acted in self-defense. She would have killed him.” The last piece clicked in. Stiles preferred his strings and cutouts on the wall, but all John needed was the mental image of a jigsaw puzzle. His eyes hazed over while he moved the new pieces around each other to fit. 

“Mr. Stilinski?” He turned his focus back to Allison. “Scott’s eyes changed when he went feral. He’s an Alpha.” 

Every piece scrambled once more. Scott. Their Scott. Out there running around as a monster of the night that needed to be hunted. The boy who had cried when he’d stepped on a worm by accident. 

“But that’s impossible,” he said before he could help himself. The shock had been enough of a distraction for him to miss Allison’s disappearance. The light of the flashlight revealed nothing but a still forest. 

To himself he completed the thought, “because he’s a Hale.” 

And Hale Alpha was snoring on his couch just this morning. 

 

He had a moment to think of the words ‘head trauma’ when a large object hit the side of his head. The world went black before he could think of more. 

 

\---

 

The engine was still cooling and Derek could already feel it. They stepped out into the night with their heads swivelling and Derek saw Stiles’ shoulders draw up to his ears at the same time Derek’s fangs instinctively dropped with a low growl. There was something in the trees. Not immediately close, but enough of a trace to unsettle them. The stench of it made Derek’s lips curl in disgust. Feral. 

As a kid he’d used the look-out as a marker when following Peter. The lights of the distant town and sprawling suburbs twinkled in the distance. They were a helpful guide when his patchy memory faltered as he lead the way. He’d tell Stiles to wait in the car or better, go home, if he thought it would do anything other than piss him off.

Stiles put a hand on the hood of the parked cruiser they found parked near the cliffs of the view point and shook his head. Cold, deserted hours ago. Derek trekked into the tree line in hopes of finding a clue as to what had happened. He didn’t like what he smelled. 

“Hunters. Four of them at least, one Argent for sure.” A girl, so similar to the sickening sweet scent of Kate he had to take a moment to remember the look of her limp body to convince himself it wasn’t her. Must be the cousin, he told himself to help dismiss the thought. 

A breeze blew by and Derek caught the way Stiles’ head jerked with it. 

“Scott?”

There was too much space between them for Derek to act before Stiles set off at a chase. Derek felt his claws dig into his palms when they caught nothing but air. He had no way of knowing what lay out there, but whoever it was wouldn’t be friendly. He’d taken several steps to go after Stiles when he heard footsteps behind him. 

He was torn. Stiles would certainly need his help, but the opportunity to take out a hunter who could become a surprise threat later was too great an oppurtunity. 

The steps were quick and light and he lost her a few times, but she wasn’t as fast by half when he could track her. Finally he pinpointed her and lurched. Her bow was easy to take right from her hands and was swallowed by the black scenery behind him. In the initial offense he left himself open to receive a face full of purple powder. It stopped him in his tracks and he doubled over, coughing out black muck. She stood her ground with a poisoned dagger at her side. He took the fact that it wasn’t already embedded in his neck as a cautionary sign of goodwill. 

“Why did you come here?” Her voice was steel. Honesty, he expected, would be the best way to throw her off. 

“I’m here for my beta.” Her eyes widened.

“You must be mistaken. There are no betas here.” Her heartbeat didn’t stutter. 

Gagging he spat the last of the purple mess from his system and stood tall to look at her. Or maybe not so tall. Wolfsbane still burned in his nostrils with every breath. 

“Wha- What are you saying?” And in his throat. Fuck, her shit was strong. “Where’s Scott McCall?” He asked, remembering the name from the poster in Stiles’ room. 

“His eyes went red. The last shift drove him feral.” Too late warning bells went off in his head. He remembered the night when Stiles told him about a betrayal. Derek had experience with how the Argents liked to do betrayal, but the girl could barely be out of highschool. More than that, it was the look in her eyes that told him there was something else. That and the dagger still stayed at her side. 

“What do you want?” He asked because she wanted something from him, otherwise he’d be dead. “Where’s the Sheriff?” He asked because he couldn’t help himself. 

In answer pain exploded through his body and the tip of a sword pierced through his shirt. The girl cried out in shock at the sight of it just as a bellowing howl escaped him. Blood oozed onto his shirt in a dark and heated mess where he grabbed at his torso.

“Good catch, Allison!” A bright light shined into his eyes and Gerard Argent stepped into view behind it. “Look at that, we’ll have two Alphas by the end of the night. Not a bad score, I’d say.”

The blade pulled itself free and Derek dropped to his knees. He heard a roar behind him and a body hit the ground, but his eyes were already heavy. He looked to the newcomer that stood before him and saw a face he could swear belonged to Peter.

 

\---

 

Stiles was a few paces away from Derek when he caught the wind. It felt like a stab to the gut. 

“Scott?” 

And he was off. He didn’t even think of moving, his body simply went. At the middle of his chest he could feel the same pressing need to go, to move, to get closer. Like an echo of the pull dragging him North after Victoria Argent stabbed him, it was incessant and unquestionable in its urgency. The closer he got the more a growing sense of dread bloomed in his stomach. Something wasn’t right about Scott’s scent. Something was making the snarling sounds of a wild animal. 

He skidded to a halt at the sight of him. His hair was shorter than the floppy locks Stiles remembered, his shoulders were broad and his once gangly arms were filled out. But it was Scott. Or had been, at some point. 

Scott’s body was warped, caught between some unholy beast and the human that Stiles had known. Heavy breathes came through fangs and a bloody mouth and at his feet lay a crumpled body soaked black in stale blood. When the creature looked up to meet his eyes they glowed red with a low growl of warning, sparking an orange flash from Stiles’ own in response. Stiles’ eyes had barely dimmed before the animal reacted. It snarled fiercely with a snap of its jaw and it’s clawed hands sunk into the ground on either side of the body beneath it but Stiles, he barely noticed. Just under the clawed hand was the unmistakable dull glint of a Sheriffs badge, half caked in blood. His heart launched itself into his throat. 

His mind blanked. Wrong, his mind urged him, this was all very completely and utterly wrong. Beneath the shock Scott’s new form brought and the ice-cold fear shooting through him at the sight of his father's body his senses were screaming that something was wrong. He tried to focus but he kept getting distracted by what he was seeing. His eyes locked on the badge, the blood on Scott’s hands, and what he could now tell was his father's uniform jacket soaked in blood. Wrong his mind shouted and he felt sweat start to bead on his skin. He flexed his fist when his hands started to tremble. With a last look at Scott’s crouched position over his father Stiles closed his eyes to think. Under the rotting stench of the beasts skin and the torn earth beneath him he could smell it. The blood soaking the body was not the same as the blood that ran through his veins. He could place the smell of it only from a night spent in a basement years ago when he’d been beaten on an unfinished cement floor. It was Gerard Argents. 

His eyes flew open. As much as it pained him to, he could see how the terror before him was Scott, beneath the red eyes he shouldn’t have and the grotesquely contorted bones was the boy Stiles had grown up with. And despite it all, he still loved him. Ohana, and all that. 

“Scott, Scotty-“ He held his arms out in the deranged hope that they’d help placate the feral animal in front of him. It was hard to look at the two men he loved more than life and think the unthinkable consequences possible. Focus, he could hear Derek command in his head, but Stiles had no idea what to do. His hands were still outstretched and his course of action plan had stopped there. His eyes heated, wet in shock and frustration, and he knew they’d be shining orange in a way he hadn’t lost control of since he was a child. He felt helpless. It took several tries before he found his voice again.

“Scotty it’s me,” he choked with a tongue as heavy as lead. “It’s Stiles, buddy. I need you...” his lungs felt empty but they wouldn't expand to accept more than shallow gasps of air. “You gotta let me help my dad.” 

Finally the tears dropped out of his eyes. It was a horrible feeling as they tracked hot paths down his face, but it left his eyes clearer to look up at Scott and try to find his friend underneath it all. The snarl had been replaced with the weary and creased look of pain. Scott started to crawl back from Stiles, his body straightening out of its crouch from over Stiles’ dad. 

“That’s it bud. I know you, Scott.” Scott’s eyes started to flicker and with renewed hope Stiles pressed, “You can fight this. Come back.” 

In agonizing cracks Scotts body started to shift. It unlocked itself into a more human sized form amidst pained cries. Stiles didn’t dare breath until it was over. Scott stood shaking in front of him, staring like he was the one who was seeing a ghost.

“Stiles?” He gasped through panted breaths. 

A howl ripped through the night. Stiles felt it vibrate through his body and call him in his bones. With great effort, he kept his feet planted in the ground, but couldn’t help the way his body leaned towards the dark trees in yearning. Scott was gone when he looked back. 

Stiles scrambled over his own feet and fell next to his father. It took a moment of hands rumpling through the shirt and over pants before Stiles was satisfied that the only blood of his fathers was on the man's forehead accompanying a small bump and break of skin.

Stiles swore as he dragged his father against a tree. He had a brief moment of painful indecision while looking at his dad’s prone form.

“I’m sorry, dad. I’ll be back, I swear,” He said with one more pat on his father's lapel. “I’ll be right back,” he called as he dashed into the trees.

 

The darkness blurred around him, and if Stiles had had the mind for it he’d have been amazed that he didn’t trip over an errant root or run into a tree. His night vision was better than human, but he wasn’t a fucking cat. Something inside his chest was telling him there was only one place on earth he needed to be, and the longer he wasn’t there the more adamant the feeling became. As he got closer he almost became light headed with its pounding. There were flashlights glowing ahead and he knew they would be the X on his map. He made it fifty feet away before he could see what the light was shining on.

Scott stood by a kneeled over Derek, who’s head was bowed to his chest. In front of them Stiles could barely make out the silhouette of Gerard Argent with the light in hand and Chris standing to his side. To his surprise, like this was a bloody family reunion, Allison stood between the two parties in no-mans-land with her hands raised as she spoke.

“This has never been about the code!” She yelled. 

She continued, but Stiles’ attention was drawn to Derek when the copper tang of blood reached him. He re-assessed Derek’s position. His hands were clutching his stomach and below him a glint of light caught on an ungodly amount of blood pooling at his knees. Up close, when he found himself crouched over him, Stiles could see the haze in his eyes and blood on his lips.

“Derek what do I do? How do I fix this?” He fumbled his hand to uselessly join Derek’s and Scott’s in a mess of scorching hot blood on Derek’s stomach, the three of them trying in vain to keep his blood from spilling. 

“C’mon, Derek. What do I do? You gotta tell me what do here.” Derek grimaced weakly in pain as he clung to him, sweat soaking his entire body and flattening his hair. Stiles tried to ignore the blankness creeping into his eyes and the chilled touch of his skin when he pushed the strands back from Derek’s face with a bloody hand. 

A shot made them all jump, Scott now on his feat. Stiles whipped around to stare behind him in horror. Gerard held his gun pointed at Allison, who clutched the side of her arm. 

With a mad light in his eyes he said, “That is quite enough, sweetheart. Christopher, finish it.” 

Before any of them could move a second shot echoed in the night. Gerard’s body fell to the ground. A single bullet hole ran through his temples. It was a surprise, but not enough to keep Stiles looking when he could feel Derek going slack under his hands. 

“Hey, no,” he said when Derek’s eyes began to linger shut longer and longer. “No, no, no, none of that. Derek keep your eyes open. I’m gonna get you home, we gotta-” he choked. Scott leaned into his side from where he stood next to him.

“It should have been me,” Scott whispered. 

“No,” Stiles growled mutedly, a visceral anger taking hold of him but not enough to shake the sorrow already flooding his chest. “It should have been no one but that bastard.” 

Scott reached out to take Derek’s hand in his. As soon as their skin touched they both reacted. Derek gasped wetly and Scott cried out, their eyes opened wide and burned red. 

“What?” Stiles asked dumbly. 

A small vein of adrenaline hummed through him and he tensed, unsure of what was happening. He looked between the two and saw their claws had both extended into each other's forearms. When he looked back up Scott’s eyes had begun to change from red through a glowing orange like his own before settling on the once-familiar golden hue. They both seized in pain through it all and Stiles could do nothing but wait. The Argents stood off to the side with their arms wrapped around one another, starring in concern. 

Scott fell back onto his ass when their claws slipped free of skin. Derek slumped into Stiles’ hands already around his middle, his forehead pressed to Stiles’ shoulder. They were both heaving in air like they’d resurfaced from water. Stiles could feel Derek’s body trembling where he rested against him and he slowly pushed so he could see Derek’s face. The hand not propping Derek up went to his stomach. The blood was cold. He pulled on Derek’s shirt where it was already pierced and ripped it out of the way. The skin beneath was covered in blood but unmistakably solid. 

“Derek?” He asked, still staring down at the flesh where moments before there’d been a gaping hole. 

“He’s a Hale,” Derek grunted. “There can only be one-” he had to pause to cough and spit out old blood, “one Alpha per pack. His wolf deferred to save me.” 

Stiles looked down in concern to where Scott laid in the dirt. 

“What the hell is going on here?” Everyone turned at the commanding voice to see Deputy Parrish. He stood breathing heavy like he’d run the entire way from the Sheriff’s office with a flashlight and gun in hand and a bewildered expression. 

 

\---

 

Everyone collects at the Stilinski household just as the sun cast a pale hand over the sky. Melissa McCall had been called sometime on the drive over and was waiting to check the Sheriff's concussion. She deemed him safe but under watchful eyes only. Then, like the ghost of Peter, Scott walked in the door. Tears and hugs and yelling exploded until Scott quickly tugged his mother upstairs to ‘hug it out’ as Stiles said. Deputy Parrish and the Sheriff sat in the kitchen with the faint scent of whisky and a number of ‘but-’ ‘I know’s’ that got more exasperated with every repetition. Derek found himself back on the couch, exactly where he’d been barely twenty-four hours before. 

Stiles sat on the floor at his feet.

With drowsy eyes Stiles said, “you should shower,” and Derek knew he was right, but his limbs felt like concrete and the stairs were a challenge he wasn’t ready to face. 

Despite Stiles’ slumped pose against the foot of the couch, they didn’t touch. He worried about what that might mean. 

“Stiles,” he said gently. Stiles turned to look up at him. “Ask.” Derek told him.

“You’re a Hale.” It was an accusation. Derek wasn’t sure if he was going to say anything more in the silence that followed. He wondered what Stiles had heard about his family. “Did you know my mom?” It wasn’t the question he expected.

 

“No,” he said, too thrown to say anything but the truth. “I knew of her, but it was my mother who met with her.” 

Stiles’ shoulders hunched in a way he’d seen before, when he’d just arrived at the house. It made him look skittish and defensive and Derek wanted nothing more than to run a hand through his hair and tell him to sleep. Maybe it was cowardly of him to consider doing just that. He had waited too long already, he’d admit. 

“Why’d you take me in, when you found me?” That was the one he’d been waiting for. Stiles had never asked after he’d brushed off the first try. 

“I felt the connection,” Derek said. “It’s different than pack,” he watched Stiles freeze before he continued, “it’s stronger. You were sworn to me, to the Hale line. Your mother gave herself, and consequently the fox spirit that is now in you, to my mother as an offer in exchange for sanctuary.” He’d had to scrape through his memory and the old books he had left to recall what had actually happened, and this was the closest to the truth that he’d been able to summarize of the past. 

“What does it mean?” Stiles asked. 

Derek has a hard time looking at him when he replied. “It was a long time ago, I can’t remember what-”

“What does it mean?” Stiles said.

“We can’t spread out too far,” Derek said, “the three of us.” He wasn’t looking at Stiles, but he could feel his gaze on him intensify. “The same town should be fine, but you’d feel it the worst if you went too far.”

“And?” he insisted.

“The closer we get the more we’ll be able to sense each other. We’ll know how the other is feeling and where they are,” he paused, “when they need help.”

Stiles was silent for a moment, but he asked once more. 

“And?” it was quiet, no longer demanding. 

“I won't,” he looked at Stiles now because this was important. He’d ignored it for long enough but Stiles needed to know he wasn’t fucking around about it. “I won't ever force you, Stiles.” He couldn’t help the anger that seeped into his voice at the thought of what this boy had been through. “He was a monster, what he did was wrong. I won't ever ask you to pick up a goddamn sock without giving you a choice.” 

He’d rip Peter’s throat out again if he could, because Stiles was crying by the time that Derek finished speaking. He tried to hide it by clearing his throat and avoiding Derek’s eyes, even though it was evident in the tense line of his shoulders. It had been a long day and a longer night and to end it this way left Derek feeling drained and defeated. They may have been lucky with the Argents today, but he could hear a woman begging her son to never leave her again upstairs, the smell of whisky had grown stronger from the kitchen, and there was a beautiful boy who wouldn’t look him in the eye sitting at his feet. This was not a win. This was merely survival. 

 

 

-fin- 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite chapter to write


	3. Catch

Kept for possible future work and the beautiful comments :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! What a bum way to end it all. Honestly it felt like the most natural ending for me, not really happy but not actually sad, just is. 
> 
> Should I continue what a Part 2? I've thought of it! Even just a one-shot get together epilogue has been on my mind. 
> 
> You tell me!

**Author's Note:**

> First fic over 1k! This feels like forever ago! Just did a revision so I can maybe possibly jump back into it to really finish it off since this has been my most popular story so far. 
> 
>  
> 
> Support Your Local Author: Leave a Comment ;) <3 
> 
> psst if you enjoyed it maybe rb/like my post on tumblr?? xoxo  
> http://bornbythesearaisedbythemountains.tumblr.com/post/181972423526/the-place-between-the-pines-zanniscaramouche


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